


Fly by Night

by headcanonftw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headcanonftw/pseuds/headcanonftw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is the crime in love such as this, pure and real and unabashed as they fly through the plains and deserts, alone against a world that doesn't care?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly by Night

**Author's Note:**

> 1:46am. That's really all I can say. I just sat up in bed, grabbed my laptop, and wrote this. Sorry if it's massively shitty. Title from Rush's song of the same name.

The Impala is sleek, gorgeously and deliciously dark and shining in the crisp night air. They’re in Montana – or maybe Idaho, unless they’ve already crossed the border into Washington – and they don’t really care. Dean’s got the radio on as loud as Sam can stand it, and Sam’s got his hand down Dean’s pants. It’s a good night.  
  
Radio waves and the rumbling of the car pulse through them as their own heartbeats, lifeblood spilling over into each other and back. Blood. Family. Everything they’ve got and everything they need, all wrapped up and tangled in one another so they’ll never find their way alone.  
  
But does it matter? In the grand scheme of things – God’s plan, some call it – what are two beautiful sinners? What is the crime in love such as this, pure and real and unabashed as they fly through the plains and deserts, alone against the world who doesn’t care?    
  
Rivers pass unnoticed. Dean’s arching up out of his seat, hips rising to meet Sam’s hand and pressing his boot harder into the gas pedal. Sam’s hunched and twisted across the bench, trying to avoid the gear shift and Big Gulps as he presses his lips, teeth, tongue into Dean’s neck, ravishing the tanned skin and taut muscle, nose bumping hidden freckles no one else has ever seen – never close enough or never bothering to look. The stars twinkle overhead as Dean pulls over, gravel crunching under the Impala’s tires, and Sam’s back is thrust against the passenger-side door.  
  
Brothers. Closer than close, and closer still. Hands everywhere, always touching, even before all this started, reassurance against the angry outside, closing in on their little world. A world of monsters and heroes, of Dad and demons – or demons and Dad – of Sam and Dean.  
  
Sam’s rutting against his brother, begging for purchase through his jeans, and Dean’s got his knee between Sam’s legs. His fingers are running through his brother’s shaggy brown hair – touching the sideburns he teases Sam about all day but aches for when they’re gone too long – tracing the jaw that was round once before sharpening to a feline point, before finally squaring, manly and grown. Their lips meet, soft skin pulled tight over anxious teeth, opening for tongues and chins and cheeks.  
  
Fuck the rest. They don’t matter. Because this? This is it, baby. That thing everybody’s looking for but winds up too neurotic to find. That thing poets have written about for centuries but still can’t find the words to describe. That thing movies and books and plays have been dedicated to but have yet to find the right cast, setting, soundtrack for.   
  
The whole script is written in the little puffs of hot breath they could see against the cold if they were looking anywhere but each other. The whole cast is right here, on-location in the only home they’ve ever known, or needed. The rising action was the fire – the climax will be in a few seconds, not long after Sam hooks his knee over Dean’s shoulder.  
  
The falling action’s already passed, falling for each other with every mile put between them and what they might have known. Every step away from normal has brought them closer to here and right fucking now. Two brothers, tangled and trapped and encased forever within each other, and neither of them would ever feel whole without it.   
  
Slumped across his brother in the cool October air, Dean burrows his arm under Sammy’s waist, pulling them flush so they can hear their hearts beating in tune. Sam smiles into his big brother’s hair, petting his damp shirt under the too-hot jacket Dean never takes off.   
  
Finally, they disentangle – Sam pulls his jeans back into place and Dean repositions himself in the driver’s seat – and they take off into the night. They’ll pull into a motel around dawn, when Dean will admit defeat against sleep, and they’ll curl together between the sheets, bitching about hairy legs or Dean’s stomach or Sam in general, and surrender together.


End file.
